America's Revolution
by Mandolin77
Summary: Arthur did not lie to you, Amérique. You... simply have different ideas about the world.  Hurt/comfort, post Revolutionary War.


France opened his eyes, blinking to clear away the blur of sleep as the doorbell rang again. Bright moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the face of the grandfather clock across the room – a quarter past three. Who in their right mind would show up at his door at three o'clock in the morning?

He sighed, pulling his slippers and bathrobe over the white-silk pajamas he'd slept in, and reached for the oil lamp on the bedside table. Why people were so keen on this_ war_ business was beyond him: beauty sleep seemed far more important.

The doorbell rang again, louder, and the blond stumbled to his feet. "Oui, oui! Just a moment."

He lit the wick of the lamp and made his way out into the dark hallway, peeved to find that none of his half-dozen servants had even bothered to get out of bed. Of course, he generally discouraged the servants from answering the door – such things reflected poorly on his reputation – but middle-of-the-night visitors were an exception to the rule. He sighed again and hurried down the stairs.

He'd expected to find some soldier-boy standing on the porch, or, if the fates were feeling especially cruel, an angry, drunken England. He found neither. Instead a bedraggled Alfred lifted his head as the door opened, forcing a small smile. "H-hey, France."

The blond paused. "Amérique...? What are you doing 'ere at this hour?"

"We beat Arthur."

He blinked, taken aback, and America dropped his gaze to the cobblestone under his feet. "Aren't you, like, going to invite me in or something?"

Francis opened the door wider and the boy – he really was just a boy – took a trembling step forward, muttering a thank you as the Frenchman took his arm to help him inside. Both of them pretended not to notice the fresh tears sliding down Alfred's cheeks.

"You're shivering." That wasn't important, not really, but Francis felt as though he had to say something. The boy just shrugged, allowing himself be led towards the cold fireplace.

"It's not u-usually so cold this time of year."

_Anywhere _was cold at three in the morning, but Francis kept that thought to himself. The small hours were meant for sleep and wine and stargazing and lovemaking, not for the horrors of war. He pushed Alfred down gently onto the coffee colored sofa, thinking of all the things a nation as young as he was ought be doing. Surely nothing on that list included bleeding to death on your big brother's sofa.

"Are you hurt, my dear?" America shook his head in a way that didn't really mean no, and France pressed a hand to his forehead.

"My... the front of my shirt is all sticky." He plucked at the heavy blue coat almost wistfully as Francis turned away to start a fire in the grate, the oil lamp sputtering quietly on the table beside them. "My clothes are cold, Francis."

"Take your clothes off, then, _mon lapin_," he chided, feeding a log into the flames. Alfred fumbled to comply. "I'll send someone to get hot water for us." Assuming any of the servants every woke up enough to realize they had company. With a sigh he added another log and turned away towards the servant's quarters, rousing them all with the sound of his fist on the door. By the time he managed to make it back to the main room of the house, both Alfred's glasses and the top half of his clothing were missing.

On any other occasion, France would have been thrilled.

As it was, he just dropped to his knees beside the boy, examining the damage with a careful eye.

The wound – he would've guessed it was made by a bayonet – wasn't deep, but France knew from experience that wounds to the stomach didn't have to be. Judging from the amount of blood on the white, make-shift bandages, it would likely be weeks before the younger nation would be strong enough to walk again.

"Let us get you cleaned up a little, _non_? You'll be more comfortable without those nasty rags clinging on to you."

A young woman came in carrying a bowl of steaming water in one hand and a pile of what looked to be torn strips of a bed sheet in the other, although they'd had enough sense not to use the nice linens. Another maid came in behind the first, loaded down with towels, and France said a mental blessing over the whole useless lot of them. Once in a while he remembered why he bothered to keep them at all. (Apart from the obvious benefits of having a house full of ladies at his beck and call.) Francis murmured a thank you as Alfred closed his eyes.

"Stay awake, Amérique, _s'il vous plait_. I need to change the dressings."

"'M tired, though," he mumbled, and the Frenchman tisked and began unwinding the bandages. America hissed softly but didn't respond.

"There will be plenty of time for sleeping when I am done, _cher_." When he received a shake-of-the-head answer he added, "Would I lie to you?

Alfred blinked his eyes open and then squeezed them shut them again. "Would you?"

France bit his tongue to keep in the defensive words and instead went back to peeling away layers of dirt and cloth, silent because he knew it wasn't really _him_ Alfred was referring to. "Arthur did not lie to you, _mon lapin_. You... simply have different ideas about the world."

There was a long pause as the older nation examined the injury, and Alfred slumped forward a little more as the rough, wet fabric of a towel dragged against his rubbed-raw skin. "What happened?"

Francis didn't bother to look up, sure he couldn't bear to see whatever face went with that sad, broken little voice. "You grew up, _bien-aimé, non? _Britain needs to learn that you are not his child any longer."

Alfred went on as though he hadn't heard him, tears evident in his voice as he scrubbed them away with the back of one dirty hand. "He used to be so strong. Britain, I mean. And... and then he was just lying there in the mud, bleeding and cursing and crying and I... God. I just _stood_ there and watched him _cry_. And I couldn't do anything because he – he's Arthur, for pity's sake! He's... so strong. _He used to be_—"

He broke off wailing and wrapped both arms around himself, doubled over as though afraid of being attacked. France sighed. "Hush,_ mon petit._"

He urged Alfred forward gently and the boy slid, boneless, off the sofa and into the older nation's arms. Francis marveled for a moment at how much the youth had grown; it seemed ridiculous to think this could possibly be the same wild child he and Arthur had argued over for so many years. It was a shame England couldn't see them right then, his adopted ward kneeling on France's floor and sobbing into France's shoulder, cold and bloody and dirty and full of all the desperate self-hatred of broken love. What would Arthur say? What would the Great Britain say if he knew his sworn enemy was awake at three in the morning to comfort his adopted son?

It was madness, of course, utter and complete nonsense, but the thought was a cold comfort as Alfred cried into his cotton bathrobe and the Frenchman rocked them both gently back and forth. It would be a long night.


End file.
